Adventure Magazine Cover — page 174: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE CHIEF PRAYS by Larry O’Conner ORD GOD, Thy will controls the winds, Thy hand can still the seas; Thy love condones our mortal sins—forgie’s our trespasses. Think not I’d dare to interfere in plan of Thine, O Lord; But Ye’'ll obsairve, we’ve with us here two hundred souls aboard. Puir feckless loons wha dinna ken Thy mysteeries, O God— They wadna’ know a clincher-pin fra’ yon connectin’-rod. They’ve trusted to our seamanship, the skipper’s skill and mine, Lo see them safely through this trip across these seas of Thine. Not e’en a sparrow falls to earth but what ’tis seen of Thee; It isna’ mine to judge their worth—these lives depend on me. Irate my wark too high? Mayhap; yet, when all’s said and done, My job’s to see yon heap o’ scrap performs her scheduled run. And should I fail to keep that trust, the blame comes back to me, That leaves this helpless chunk o’ rust the sport o’ wind and sea. Thou knowest, Lord, how we ha’ wrought—we dinna seek for praise— Whilst all Fhine angry seas have sought to end our mortal days. A surge, a broken pincher-pin, a bent eccentric-rod, And over a’ the fearfu’ din that spells Thy wrath, O God. To heat and shape that rod again, ’twas no small task, Ye mind, Whilst tossed about like bowlin’ pins, our eyes wi’ sweat half blind. And so, for fifty mortal hour, wi? hand, and brain, and nerve We strove; and now we’re under power; she knocks, but she will serve. The end is aye within Thy hand, our skill is but a spark; But still, a man, Ye understand, must strive to do his wark. Not but the skipper’s used his wits, above there on the deck, Wi every life-boat smashed to bits, the bridge a total wreck. Seas swept the funnels from their stays, and breached the starboard rail; Oh, aye; it’s no child’s play to face a North Atlantic gale. The wheel-house went that second morn, wi’ four hands, by the board. They’d wives, na doot, their loss to mourn— Thy will be done, O Lord. The crew’s a scurvy pack o’ thieves—dock rats, and gutter spawn; But still, they’re white; and times like these they curse, but carry on. Not like these slant-eyed yellow men I’ve stokin’ for me here; Inclined to mutiny, Ye ken; and unco’ swift to fear. 172 eGomicbooks.com —